Rain slabbers across the windows as we turn
on Runway 22, accelerate and lift
into the air above the taciturn
streets and the shipyard drenched in mist.
My ears pop as we drift through candyfloss,
rise from the cotton sea into a sky
the colour of your eyes and mine. As we cruise,
my thoughts freefall and I imagine I hear you sighing
as you mull over your cryptic crossword:
six across – shuffle a languid anger.
You taught me to look upwards, see further
when we stood by the fence at Dublin airport,
watching the planes pass into the grey.
Now I know they crash through to the light.
I love it up here where the streets look so tiny
I could sweep them into my fist
and I could walk on clouds to the horizon
and beyond. Would I find you there, smiling
down on me as I travel so fast
I look as if I’m standing still?